


wanda's journal // grief and healing

by briii_0001



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Canon Compliant, Childhood Trauma, Cute Vision (Marvel), Diary/Journal, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, I Will Go Down With This Ship, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Vision (Marvel), Psychological Trauma, Sweet Vision (Marvel), Trauma, Vision is a Good Bro (Marvel), small gestures big impact, wandavision wrecked me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29926701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briii_0001/pseuds/briii_0001
Summary: Wanda keeps a journal to remember who she was before Ultron. Her internal monologue navigates life as an Avenger, her touching interactions with the synthezoid Vision, and grief as a whole.(please keep in mind i'm not claiming to have gone through or experienced the horrible stuff wanda has, and i don't have ptsd, so i could be doing this completely wrong. i don't mean to offend anyone! wanda is a character i've wanted to write for a while but couldn't find the right words, and i didn't know what her backstory was going to be like in the mcu. but after wandavision and rereading some of my favourite comics, i think i'm ready. this takes place after AOU and before/during CACW, and maybe a short bit about wanda on the run in scotland.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Wanda Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff & Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**May 24th, 2015**

Today marks my second week living at the Avengers compound, and the second week of living without Pietro. There’s another soldier taking shelter here, Barnes. He encouraged me to keep this journal because it helped him remember who he was before he got involved in this Avenger business, and it might help me improve my English. I have the correct vocabulary and verb conjugations and I can translate fast enough, but I’ve been subconsciously switching back to Russian ever since Ultron.

Barnes is like me in many ways— we’re both HYDRA experiments, fluent in Russian (he sounds native, but he’s American) and until we can figure out what we’re going to do with ourselves, we’re living to be kept alive by Stark and SHIELD.

I haven’t told anyone, but I hate this. I haven’t felt like myself ever since Pietro, and the longer I stay here, I don’t think I may ever feel like myself again. I come to America, and suddenly I’m  _ the mutant _ or  _ the kid _ — I am twenty-six years old, do they realize this? I am not a kid, I am old enough to be drafted to war. 

America isn’t anything like the sitcoms.


	2. Chapter 2

**May 26th, 2015**

Captain Rogers helped me make an omelette today. Like a fish out of water, I was so nervous. Most of the ingredients they had in the kitchen were considered delicacies in Sokovia and I figured Stark is one of those people who never want you to touch their things.

Food has always been tricky, for lack of a better word. When the war worsened, we’d be lucky to get a sprinkle of salt or a sufficient amount of grain, and considering some of the food they used to give us at the research base, anything too pretty might be poison. I’ve never made anything beyond scrambled eggs simply because there was nothing else to experiment with. I’m glad the Captain stepped in when he did, because I might’ve burned down the kitchen and killed myself. Then Pietro would be standing over me disappointed because I didn’t die in a heroic way like he did.

(I’m subconsciously inserting him everywhere, and I hate it.)

**Later**

Whatever might happen after this life is a concept I’ve had in the back of my head for a while. Sometimes I fear having to face my parents and Pietro or maybe even Strucker and the scientists with HYDRA, all depending on where I go.

Good or evil, heaven or hell, it’s something I spend a lot of time thinking about. Where  _ will _ I go? It doesn’t actually matter of course, no one knows what happens after death, but when you’re a refugee, you find yourself wondering about it more than ever. When it will all end.


	3. Chapter 3

**May 29th, 2015**

I went to the library today, to clear my head. The news have been particularly bad lately, everyone having different opinions on Sokovia and and me and Ultron and Pietro and Strucker and everyone else. They’re talking about getting Helen Cho an interview with Vogue, Stark’s having a speech prepared, and everyone’s telling me this isn’t my fault, which makes me feel like it _is_ my fault, whatever the “this” is. It’s chaos like I’ve never seen it. Chaos, control, authority, that’s what it’s always about.

Anyway, at the library I ended up skimming through old newspapers, and I found an interesting article from _The_ _Los Angeles Times._ Dated 1989, a few months after I was born. It was about a Cambodian woman who’d literally cried herself blind. She was a refugee, had seen family members brutally murdered in front of her, and cried every day for four years. I looked into it a little more, and she wasn’t the only one— plenty of people came forward with this same problem, all Cambodian women, all saying they couldn’t see, and yet when the doctors looked their brains and eyes were perfectly normal. Psychosomatic blindness, basically. They’d seen so much horror they couldn’t take it anymore, so their minds closed down.

How I envy them.

I envy that they can cry in the first place, actually. Whenever I try I end up buried in my bed watching _Malcolm In The Middle_ reruns. My eyes sting, and everything comes back, but I’m never actually swept under the riptide no matter how much I pray it drowns me.

Part of me knows I should be coming up with a plan. Pietro would tell me to stop being a baby, pick up the pieces and figure out how to start anew. We’ve done it a thousand times before, there’s always a way to do it again.

(He would never say that.)

But at least I’m not dead, I’m not blind, I’m still getting out of bed in the morning more or less. That’s a starting point.


	4. Chapter 4

**May 30th, 2015**

Another adventure in the kitchen today. Stark has an ice cream maker and I had some time to spare before the next board meeting, so I stirred granulated sugar, milk, and heavy cream together, hoping it would come out as something edible. Vision came by halfway through and I added some vanilla extract on his suggestion. Then we watched it churn for half an hour until it came out looking somewhat like ice cream. Vision can’t taste as he’s not human, but I told him it tasted alright.

The board meeting was scary. Stark had some California Congressmen sit in and they were very loud. I don’t think they’ve seen my face up close and I don’t think they knew I was there, the way they kept mentioning me like a dog instead of a human. Apparently because I survived, I caused Sokovia’s destruction.

I wanted to scream. My home country has been enveloped in war since before I was born, I have grown up in it, lost my family and childhood to it, and in their eyes I’m a warmonger. Yes, I voluntarily joined HYDRA, and I may not have had the most innocent of morals when I joined up with Ultron, but I now know that HYDRA is a terrorist organization, and I never had a hand in creating Ultron. 

Ultron didn’t tell us at first that he was planning to wipe out the entire human race, and when we learned, Pietro and I defected because that is  _ not _ what we stood for. I wanted revenge on Stark and his enterprise, but I am now an ally. I want my Sokovia back more than anyone else, and I actually know that strategic massacres isn’t peace.

I want to say I understand how frazzled everyone is trying to figure out an effective way to help. Hundreds of thousands are now left without homes, running water and other necessities, and last I heard the FBI were stacking corpses in the streets to estimate how many are dead. But can you really put a blame on one person in this situation? 

I know I am being selfish, and I know the Congressmen are right.


	5. Chapter 5

**June 1st, 2015**

Stark is going to go on TV again to defend my innocence, and while he’s gone, the AI, FRIDAY, has put the entire compound on lockdown. This is only stressing me out as there could be a threat he’s not telling me about. The better part of me is sure he knows I can defend myself, and Barnes, Vision, and Natasha are also here, so we’re more than fine, but it’s yet another example of feeling like cargo being handled in this echoey haunted house of a base.

In the meantime, we’re not to go out to the science labs, research facilities, or be outside in general. That leaves the living quarters, various recreation rooms and the kitchen. As I’m writing this I’m lying on my bed and I haven’t stepped foot outside this room since Stark left. It’s warm in here, I opened the curtains for the first time in forever. Of course now that we’re forbidden I want to go outside. I can’t tan, but once I’m allowed out, maybe I’ll try to.

Part of me knows I’m an Avenger just as much as Black Widow, I’m qualified to help out or at least defend my own name, and yet here I am being held against my will. I should be mad about it, I should be  _ beyond _ furious, but I’m not. What stings is I know Pietro would be, either that or he’d be dealing out the cards for a game of Durak. We used to play it all the time when we were teenage orphans in Sokovia.

The sun is about to fall. Maybe I’ll fall asleep early.

**Later**

Nevermind. Natasha came up about ten minutes after I finished my entry and asked if I would like to come downstairs with her and the rest of them. Apparently they were passing the time by playing board games in the living room.

It was strangely humane of them, so I said yes, and ten minutes later I found myself playing a game of Clue with a synthezoid robot, a superhuman born in 1917, and a master assassin. (It’s not like I’m the only regular person there considering the whole psionic energy manipulation thing I don’t quite understand yet is still the one thing people use to define me, but you get the point.)

Barnes (“Bucky”, the rest of them call him) played as Colonel Mustard even though he was a sergeant with the 107th Regiment, while Vision played Professor Plum and Natasha went with Mrs Peacock. She originally wanted Miss Scarlet, but Vision insisted I play as her. I think they’re trying to make me interact with them more seeing as Miss Scarlet rolls first, but if that’s the case, they’re going to have to try harder than that.

Vision ended up winning the first game. It was Mrs White with the candlestick in the conservatory. The second, which lasted over an hour, Barnes finally got it. It was Miss Scarlet in the kitchen with the rope. Natasha must’ve dealt the cards wrong because there was some confusion, we all had an uneven amount of cards and kept crossing off conflicting people on our little pieces of paper, but we got there in the end.

As it turns out, Vision preserved the flavourless ice cream I made yesterday, so he brought it out of the fridge and we ate the leftovers. Natasha showed me how to add more flavour by adding a mountain of whipped cream on top, as well as a rainbow of sauces and sprinkles. Barnes said it was good, but he didn’t want to eat much because it was cheating on whatever diet he put himself on, and he eventually left to go up to his living quarters. Natasha did the same after the ice cream was gone because she didn’t like the thought of him being alone.

Which ironically left me and Vision alone again. It’s crazy how this keeps happening, even crazier how each time I feel as though something deep inside of me, neutral in feeling, is urging me to step forward, go farther, and I don’t know why. He’s essentially the same as Barnes, just a synthezoid. Why do I feel different? Why am I taking the time to feel anything other than a rainstorm?

We didn’t talk much this time. A Star Wars marathon was airing on TV so we watched  _ Attack of the Clones _ together until I was nearly falling asleep. I don’t think he was very impressed by Anakin Skywalker, but he listened, and after it was finished I went up to bed. I don’t know if Vision ever came up to sleep, I don’t know if he needs to. I can’t see such a complicated piece of machinery like him having a battery like a cell phone.


	6. Chapter 6

**June 2nd, 2015**

The lockdown is officially over, thank the gods. Stark and Captain Rogers returned, as well as Sam Wilson, who hasn’t stuck around much since the compound opened but he says he has news. We all gathered in the board room to watch the speech Stark gave, and even though the crowd doesn’t look totally convinced, they’re not rioting and calling out for my execution, so it’s a victory to me. Once again I say this is a starting point, but Captain Rogers says it’s morbid to think Sokovians would ever riot like that.

I tell him he hasn’t seen Sokovia like I have.

But Sam Wilson has been to Sokovia recently to help with the cleanup, and with Strucker dead and most of HYDRA beaten to a pulp, he thinks there isn’t much evil left to deal with. They’re assuming the death total is just under thirty thousand, which is jarring to me but no one else. Do they not understand how difficult it is to survive in a war-torn country for that long, how horrible it is that that many people are dead? No one should be dead, even if the Captain says that sometimes casualties are unavoidable. They’re planning to have a mass funeral in Odessa, Ukraine, and they want me to be there for the statue unveiling. I’m scared that if I go I’ll be attacked, and I’ll have to use my energy to fight them off, making myself more of a villain in everyone’s eyes. The Pietro part of me tells me to hold my head up high, but no matter which way you flip it it’s a lose-lose.

Which is exactly why I’m going.

After the meeting was over I went directly to the compound’s gym, pulled out a yoga mat for the first time in years, and stretched, because that always helps me when I’m deep in thought. I decided it’s the right thing to do. Sokovian lives are on my conscience just like how Pietro has become a voice in my head, and I’ll have to commemorate them somehow at one point or another. If someone attacks me, I’ll be ready. If I lose I welcome death, if I win it’ll be great to kill something. Life isn’t fair, and if the Avengers don’t succeed in proving my innocence, villainy is a comfort.

We leave in two days. Sam Wilson tells me I better pack my bag.


	7. Chapter 7

**June 4th, 2015**

More nightmares again, so vivid I can’t find the words to describe them. A mass of red and black. Blood, slime, dirt, missiles and gunfire and haze and smoke. I saw the slop they used to serve me at the HYDRA base and nearly vomited. I tried to harness the magic, but found I couldn’t, and woke up screaming.

No one came.

I opened my window for fresh air and saw Barnes walking around near the board room, so I put on a bathrobe and followed him outside. I had no idea what he was doing, it was four in the morning, we both should’ve been asleep and it’s not like he told me me what was going on when I caught up with him, we just stared at each other without the need to say words. I don’t think he’s telepathic, but he understood, so we walked in step around and around Stark’s artificial greenery until the sun rose and I had to go for breakfast and a change of clothes. I feel the nightmares haunt him just as much as me.

Good news, though: I have my bag packed. I have three red jackets that used to be Natasha’s and a lifetime’s supply of socks, as well as my hairbrush and toothbrush and other obvious necessities. Natasha let me borrow some of her makeup for the funeral, and I’ve been experimenting with it. I used to want to get the little rainbow packs of eyeshadow they had at the flea markets in Sokovia, but we could never afford it, and eyeshadow wasn’t going to help us survive unless I turned out to be the world’s greatest makeup artist and stunned Americans with my handiwork before strangling them, or something.

It’s a memory gone a little sour. Pietro used to make fun of me all the time for it, but I blame the sitcoms for putting it in my head. I know mom would’ve let me experiment with it had we grown up in a normal world.

Even though Natasha has an arsenal of makeup brushes, I can’t seem to get the pigment to come out looking anything other than blocky or as if I came off worse in a fight. Luckily she came up and saw me struggling, then taught me how to get the colour onto the crease of my eyelid without looking skeletal, so now my eyes have this strange dimensionality they’ve never had before. It’s nice.

We’re supposed to board the Quinjet in a little less than three hours, so I’ve been in and out of my room and the kitchen. It turns out Stark ordered a chocolate cake ahead of his arrival to celebrate the speech not ending in a full-scale riot, so I cut a big slice for myself and ate it. I think I accidentally took about half of it, I told FRIDAY not to tell anyone.

I will not apologize for being hungry.


	8. Chapter 8

**June 5th, 2015**

I’m exhausted.

It’s hard to believe we’re not even in Ukraine yet, we stopped in Vienna, Austria because Stark decided it was a good time to test some new technology he added to the Quinjet and now we need more fuel. It’s taking much longer than anticipated, I can tell the Captain is annoyed, but he won’t say anything as he’s not our engineer. We should be in Austria for a weekend, so whenever I have a free moment Natasha’s dragged me out for tourism. We’ve seen old churches and gone to the opera and it’s interesting, I suppose, but I have next to no idea what is going on. I think she’s forgetting that I’m not multilingual like her. I speak Russian and English, that’s it.

She also ordered food for everyone on the Quinjet. I think my favourite so far is the Sabich. There’s hummus, tahini, fried eggplant, tomato salad, poached egg, and this sauce that tastes a bit like mangos, all on one plate. I tried to give my egg to Vision before I remembered he still can’t eat. 

He’s not totally useless on this journey though. He’s been telling me a lot of things about Austria that I wouldn’t know or care about otherwise, and he’s the only one I’ve been talking to about Sokovia, just little bits and pieces of life and culture that don’t matter when you look at the big picture, but because he listens, it matters. The tingly feeling comes for me again and unlike the oceans of emotion I’ve been in, it doesn’t drown me.

I’m not even in the water yet, but I want to dive in. I  _ have  _ that choice now. I like having that freedom.

I’m starting to teach him Durak. He’s a fast learner.


End file.
